... where are we heading?

I have missed pondering on my keyboard for quite sometime now and it feels good to be back on track with it. I haven’t uploaded my blog for a long time, and I apologize.
I just started working as a journalist for a new newspaper and the job put everything else in the backseat.
Finally, the paper is on the stands and hopefully I can claim my life back, bit by bit. The mundane life of a novelist is on hold as an exciting life of a journalist takes over.
Every day is different from the day before and I love it. There’s a chance to meet new people, make new contacts and get a perspective on the world.
I suddenly seem to have an opinion about everything, and beware, they are volatile opinions.
But yes, each day leaves behind a distinct imprint on the book of my life. Some days are exciting, some ordinary, some unnerving and some just depressing.

One such day was the day that followed Adnan Patrawala’s abduction and murder. At 11.30 pm, I wound up my Harry Potter and cosily hushed myself to sleep under my blanket. I was ready to be lost in the world of my dreams when my work mobile tinkled. I knew it was an emergency. I cursed and answered it. It was my editor breaking the news of Adnan Patrawala to me. “We want you to try and find out about the boy. Since in such cases, they are more forthcoming to women, will you go to Andheri early tomorrow?” I nodded and said yes.

I couldn’t sleep all night. That boy left home with friends and suddenly, his dead body’s been found.

The shock was to hit me worse the next day. All the newspapers carried a profile on the Adnan case. ‘Adnan was a spendthrift’ ‘Loved zipping around in cars’ ‘Adnan was reclusive and spent too much time on the internet’. I felt numbed by these reports branding the boy.

What’s more, an email briefing me about my report awaited me. My colleague had gone on to mention that this 16 year old sported a bottle of alcohol in his hand and hence was a ‘spoilt-brat’. I shook with anger. I remembered the picture with a breezer. Why was the media justifying the cause of the killers by branding this juvenile boy as a spoilt brat?

The journalist in me ached to find the real Adnan. I set off to Andheri and made way to his residence. It was a glum place, as my article mentioned. Plastic chairs were lined out in the compound to make place for the male relatives. Women scurried through the lift to console Adnan’s family. I ventured inwards, and started talking to people.

“Please go away,” one of the members of the family requested. I nodded and made my way outside. I couldn’t bring myself to explain to them that I was there to try and help them. I knew I was lying.

I had become one of the lots. I had encroached into the privacy of a grieving family to prove that I was good at my job. What was I doing?
In the depressive state I walked into Adnan’s college. I told the principal that I wanted to know who Adnan was. And contrary to the media reports, the pained principal described the 16 year old to me.
Adnan was like any other 16 year olds. Only, he was given the financial liberties that he could not deal with. Sure, it was his parents’ fault but what price did they have to pay for it? Was it fair?

Not in the least. The thirst for money forced Adnan’s killers to plan his kidnapping and then to murdering him in cold-blood, and no I don’t think the killers are to blame either. I think it is the growing gap between the rich and the poor. It is the increasing need for money to be able to eat at fancy restaurants, wear swanky jewellery, carry least gadgets and afford designer labels.

Adnan’s murderers do deserve a harsh punishment but we as a society have lead to young Adnan’s murder… Think about it.

The Shadow

These days the shadow that thrives on my happiness has gotten darker. It has gotten darker to the extent of being indestructible by the feeble lights I flash on it. The shadow only gets darker each day. The shadow eats into my happiness. Every time life gives me a reason to be happy, the shadow creeps up from behind the walls like a hungry dog that has smelt meat.

It devours the juicy meat, sends the pieces of flesh flying as its teeth rapidly sink into it. All that is left behind is a bone. The reminder of the shadow’s existence. A reminder that the shadow needs to be fed. A reminder that there is nothing that can be hidden from the shadow, it will come to demand. But why? Who gave the shadow that right.

I am going to run away from the shadow. I run through the dark alleyways, onto the swarming streets. The shadow only gets darker. I run run run to find daylight. The daylight which might kill the shadow. The shadow is yet darker. The next moment I turn, the shadow is starting to grow its own eyes and nose. It has a face…. It has acquired a face. The shadow is no more a shadow. It has broken free of the chains to be its own self. And then the shadow looks down at herself and smiles. Her solid hand reaches to me and feels my face, neck, hands as if I were a toy. Her fiery eyes bear into me and I feel my form dissolve. I become the shadow.

...Starfish

While walking down a clean beach early one morning, I came across an almost dead starfish. It was stuck in the sand, stagnated. There was an urge to pick the fish up and take him home, and match it with the starfish in the book- 1001 words. But as I went down on my knees to pick the blue-grey wonder, it moved its tentacles, begging for another chance. The sea must have heard it; the chilly early morning sea wave splashed its transparent self onto the beach and washed the starfish back with it, freeing it from the sand that held it. The sea must have wanted me to have him too; another wave splashed on my foot a tickling feeling. And there it was; the star fish at my feet, resigned to its fate, stuck in the sand, motionless.

I picked it up, and stared at it. I decided to walk with it on my palm through the waking village. They later told me that it was very rare to find a starfish in Malvan. I saw no meaning in it. Until the angel who was taking care of me then whispered to me, ‘It is here to remind you my girl, that no matter how big your problems seem to you, they will always be small as compared to the universe. Look at this little starfish and think of how big his problem was, being stuck in the sand. Look how small it was to you-his problem.’

The softness of its body had changed into hardness within a day as the experience in the world outside the ocean dried it up. But it sat there, to remind me of my negligible existence in the universe!

I want to write
Breaking free from the chains
That bind me down
To me

I want to float away
Far from the reach
Of these constellations
Into a land of my mind

I want to break open,
This cage of my soul,
And explore new horizons
And let the writer be born.

Born free of me,
Free to tell the stories,
Some them my own,
Carefree…

Free of my existence,
And existence of its own…
An existence without a face
An existence defined by the constellations
Of the stories I wove.

In my cave
Deep beneath the ground
I wait for inspiration to strike
Amongst the muffled sounds…
Sounds of thumping feet,
Sounds of muffled speech,
Sounds of dying music
And of the music that has died
Life reaches me
Seeping through the ground,
I don’t want it here
And in my cocoon I crouch
I dive back into my thoughts
Thinking of the music
Thinking of you, me, him, her, us and them
My heart flows to my hand,
And I bring it all alive,
Into the world of my words.

Plain Jane

I don’t have the long pretty hair,

For you to lose yourself in.

And my cheeks aren’t that fair,

That your touch would make them pink.

I don’t have those deep blue eyes,

In which you might want to drown.

I don’t have the long lashes,

To flutter up and down.

I don’t have a sweet, melodious voice,

That might melt your heart away,

I am not even a tender angel,

That in your arms could sway.

All I am is what you see,

And I am no poets dream,

No fairy tale will tell a tale,

Of the plain-Jane that is me.

I have tried hard and now,

I am tired of this game.

To be a muse, to be a woman,

I don’t want to change

Try to love my smile,

And try to love my frowns,

Try to love my crazy hair,

And my cheeks so brown.

Love me for being who I am,

Else it’s not worth the hype,

I’d rather lose your love my man,

Than be a stereotype!

...A moment

His eyes are full of hope

But sometimes that hope just can’t cope

With the realities that he perceives

Perceptions deceive,

Until his heart grieves

For he begins to think he cannot…

The mind races with the heart,

An intense argument starts…

Hopes and fears, start shifting gears…

They are at war…

Deep blues of the iris deepen,

Open shut. Shut and open

Assuming this weird motion,

His mind resists, yet the heart has spoken.

A touch, a smile, a hug

Takes the conversation,

Beyond the realm of emotions

A bond that can’t be broken…

A bond with me, a silly girl…

What would I know of his woes?

He thinks,

She’s a girl and I am a man

She can’t understand.

I don’t, yet I hold him…

And to him all of a sudden,

I am a woman!